Diary of a Doctor's Wife
by gaffer42
Summary: Formerly "Opera", now a series from Mary Morstan's point of view. Movieverse, no non-canon relationships. Holmes and Watson friendship, seen from Mary's eyes. Third part up, and yes - I finally succumbed to my inclination toward h/c.
1. Opera

_A quick comment - I love the books, and I loved the movie. I do not believe that Mary must vanish in order for the friendship to last - and I can see Holmes being a regular caller to the Watson household. Just a short ficlet, in the movie-verse, this time!_

_**Opera**_

A night at the opera was not uncommon for either Holmes or Watson, but as for myself, it was my first opera, first outing as a married woman, and first excursion with my new husband's mercurial friend.

I was a governess before I married. I still read, voraciously, and still tried to expand my mind. My husband's writings were fascinating to peruse, the tales he spun showed Mr. Holmes' intellect and oddities clearly; if there was a fault it was that he tended to downplay his own contributions to the case. Still, John had submitted the first two tales and they were published to general acclaim. I was not concerned about an inability to participate in conversation, or to carry myself well - the graces of public behaviour were well instilled in me.

No. It was the realization that though Mr. Holmes - Sherlock - had visited us several times, and was always the soul of courtesy, I still had the feeling he saw me as a victor in a battle I didn't quite understand.

This evening, though, he knocked on the door and was admitted, carried his hat and gloves and a stick into the sitting room and sprawled - as was his wont - on the settee. I felt a twinge of envy that he could be so relaxed, so carefree in even his most formal of clothes. As was polite, I refrained from comment, but he still grinned at me.

"The current fashions will change, Mary," he said, "and you will be rid of that beastly device of style called a corset."

I no longer was surprised at his ability to, as it appeared, read my mind.

"John's rounds went late - he's just finishing dressing."

Affection softened his sharp visage. "His rounds always go late. I wager his tie will be crooked."

I inclined my head. "I believe the expression is 'you're on'."

He smirked, coming to his feet and approaching the stair.

"Mr. Tardy! The curtain rises in less than twenty five minutes!"

"Just a moment!"

Holmes leaned on the newel post, ostentatiously checking his watch, and glanced up as John descended. I smiled to watch. There was a lightness about them both that only came out when they were together - friendship of that sort was something I found I envied rather than was jealous of.

He pushed away from the post and came to stand by me, hands clasped before him. I raised an eyebrow at him and we both watched as John came to a stop at the bottom, jacket in hand. His expression was wary.

His tie was crooked.

I ducked my head, hiding an unladylike snort of laughter. Holmes strode over and straightened it, chuckling.

"And what are you two up to?" John recognized a plot when he saw it.

"Nothing, love," I assured him, moving to his side. "I simply owe Mr. Holmes a drink at the intermission."


	2. Six Months

_Diary of a Doctor's Wife is my new catchall. I am working on a couple multi-chapter tales now, but I find small bits wanting to come out, and so here we are. I must give a general warning of fluffiness, and since the "Doctor's Wife" of title is the Mary Morstan in the 2009 movie, all these will be resident on the Movie fiction site. Two things to remember about my stuff. Often, there will be hurt/comfort, and there will be no 'shipping but the obvious canon-supported relationships._

**Six Months**

Six months, now, and I was growing concerned.

We had been married for six months, I was growing accustomed to being Mrs. John Watson – the house was shaping up nicely, John's practice was growing and becoming established. Sherlock was an occasional visitor, but in the blur of settling in as a married couple it wasn't until one night – John sleeping deeply beside me – that I realized he and Sherlock hadn't had a single case together since our marriage. Not one.

It wasn't as if the consulting detective had been idle. There had been two fairly public issues he had brought to a close satisfactorily, and John had read of them in the papers, sent congratulatory wires to Baker Street – though I had urged him to deliver the felicitations in person – and retired to his study afterward.

It was puzzling. John had alluded to ceasing his work with his friend once or twice before our marriage, but I thought I had been clear that it wasn't needed. Evidently, my dear husband did not believe me. And yet I knew they still appreciated each others company, for the visits always ended the same way – I would retire to bed and come down the next day to find them both still in the study, with John asleep on the settee and Sherlock wrapped in a blanket making our best easy chair his bed. The room would smell of their tobaccos, the port bottle would be depleted and the wood box empty. I did not have to be a world famous detective to know they had talked all night. But Sherlock had never asked John to accompany him back to Baker Street, or to bring his revolver and join him on some quest.

I would be a poor wife indeed if I had not noticed that. And so, by the end of the winter, it was apparent that something needed to be done, and that I had to do it.

I, too, sent a wire to Baker Street.

The evening was warm for Spring, and we were in the sitting room before supper, reading the post and the paper. I was becoming fond of these times, and learning to be resigned to the interruptions occasioned by the fact I had married a doctor and a good one.

This interruption was welcome, though. Annie knocked at the door.

"Your guest has arrived, m'am."

"Guest?" John looked up, curious.

"Yes, dear. We haven't seen Sherlock in so long, I asked if he'd care to join us for dinner this evening." I was quite casual, as if I hadn't already laid out extra blankets on the settee in his study, set out a bottle of port and made certain there was wood enough for a night's worth of talk.

Let me be clear. I know no other may read this diary but I, however in case I lose my touch with reality in my dotage, I must state now that I was never jealous of Sherlock Holmes' place in my husband's affection. I went to some pains to assure him of the fact, but he was a bachelor with no female relatives to set example, and Holmes was – well – Holmes, and I had the certain knowledge that neither of them truly understood how it was I would not be possessive of John Watson.

Were it another woman that held my husband's affection – ah, that would have been different.

But I loved John, and for me the only requirement of a friend of his was that he love John as well, and I say truly I was content that Holmes did. I sometimes went in memory to that night while they were battling Blackwood, that awful night when I had to fly to John's bedside, hearing Sherlock was wanted for arrest…hearing of the terrible explosion and finding him attended by a white haired doctor with impossibly gentle hands. Sherlock's whole being had radiated concern. He had let me see his face, though, and though I knew I must conceal his identity there were words I had to say to him. And I had made certain he knew my mind.

I was pleased and content to see the eagerness in John's face, and the warm smile on his lips as he greeted Sherlock with pleasure.

"Good to see you, old man!" he said, shaking the damp coat. "Foggy out there?"

"Your deductive powers are coming on apace, Watson," he said, and there was a broad smile upon his face as well. "Ah, Mrs. Watson! Unexpected invitations are often the most pleasing." He came to me and took my hands, regarding me. "You are spending too much time on the upper floor, dear heart. Take more time in the garden, with the warmth coming!"

I had changed my dress, and my shoes. "I'm not asking how you know, you old ferret," I said with affection. "I've learned better. I'd just be embarrassed!"

He let my hands go and gave me a quick grin.

Johns' study was his own preserve. The time in the sitting room was ours, but was gladly shared with Sherlock. This pleasant tradition had developed over his visits, and we have had several lively conversations, the three of us.

"I own I am glad that you married someone an equal to yourself in intellect," Sherlock said at one point to John, it was an offhand compliment but one I have kept to my heart.

Supper was a merry affair as well. Pudding was served and eaten, and then the men were retiring to the study – but this time I asked if I could join them for a few moments. John nodded, slightly surprised. He gestured me in and I took a seat on the settee, moving the blankets off to one side. John noted them and quirked a grin at me.

"Sherlock," I started, smoothing my skirt over my knees "I note that you have not asked John to join you on your recent cases."

I had been planning my approach for some time, deciding that directness was the best option, and this was the best start. I was gratified to see I was right, as Sherlock simply looked at me, face blank. Good. He was listening.

"And John, I don't know where you ever got the idea that marrying me meant leaving your life of intrigue behind."

Oh, my dearest John, he appeared so shocked. I carefully did not smile.

"Now that you are both listening to me, I would like you to hear me out. John, I married you knowing you were a doctor and a detective. Ah…" I forestalled his objection to the term detective with a raised hand. "You are! You may have previously only detected illnesses, but your work with Mr. Holmes has given you skills beyond. Sherlock, I have never insisted that John cease work with you. I admire you for extending to me your courtesy, though you have always felt that I was stealing your friend from you. Know that it was never my intent. I know what it means to John to have you as a friend. I know he counts his work with you as an honour and a privilege."

I saw John smiling at me faintly. Men were always so chary of sharing themselves, or putting words to the emotions that drove them. Sherlock, though, still held his face expressionless, his eyes deep and shadowed. He had looked so at John's bedside, I realized.

"Sherlock, we had a conversation in the hall at Veterans. You must know that I understand equally, my dear sir, what it means to you to have a friend such as John," I had, very briefly, considered saying 'my John'; but that was not my point here and I was glad, seeing his face, that I had not. I left that comment there, but his body relaxed into the chair, shoulders drooped just the slightest, and I knew he understood.

"In conclusion, Sherlock, I would take it as an insult if you were not to come to the door at three in the morning, upon occasion, and require John's presence. And John, I would be concerned for you and for Sherlock – and your friendship - if you did not rise and go with him."

I stood and went to my husband. "John, dear, I married you – all of you, all of your life, and this man is so much part of you, I can't bear for you to lose that. Please, please join him on the hunt again." I turned to Sherlock, who was beginning to smile, perceiving my earnestness. "Sherlock, know that you have here a second home with your brother in bond, at any time. He will join you, when you need your good right arm and a dab shot. Do no longer see me as rival, but as a sister."

I felt myself becoming too emotional, and from the looks the two were exchanging I knew the fire would be burning brightly tonight and the room would require a through airing of tobacco smoke the next day. I bid them both good night, holding Sherlock's hand in both of mine and daring a chaste kiss on his pale cheek, then turned and embraced and kissed my dear husband.

"I love you," he whispered in my ear, holding me, and I tried to quell my fear of losing him to some dark alley or villain with a knife. I had thought long about taking this step, knowing the anguish I would feel were my husband to be badly hurt or killed. I had prevaricated, he was my husband, after all…but I couldn't ask John to be less than he was, and the fear diminished when I remembered the expression in Sherlock's eyes and knew that he would protect my husband with his life if needed. I could not ask more. "I love you too" I said, and left them to their evening.


	3. Bridge Club

_OK – I posted two bits without hurt/comfort! I was going through withdrawal. As with Trains, posted on the Book site for Sherlock Holmes, it starts after a case that goes wrong. In Six Months, Mary said she wanted to have John work with Sherlock again, but she knows what they do can be dangerous. This is a bit longer. More story to tell._

Bridge Club

Emily and I are friends. Mind, our friendship has not been forged in the fire as John and Sherlock's, but it was her arms I ran to for comfort when my Arthur died abroad, she who accompanied me on the voyage, and I told her of my new love, John, before anyone else. I had her stand with me at my side, as Sherlock did at John's, when we married. It was a wickedly humourous subject before and after to imagine that Sherlock would take interest in Emily – simply because I knew that his first love was detecting, and he had emotional room left for naught but his one true friendship with the man who was now my husband.

I am not a fool. I knew it would not be easy to breach the wall of indifference he erected. That it should have been breached, and so thoroughly, was again due to my dear John, but the circumstances were – less than pleasant, and I do not like to dwell upon them. Perhaps at some point I will commit the entire tale to these pages, but it will not be today.

Back to my friend. Emily had it in her mind that we should be more social, now that I was married and settled. As a well-off young widow she had a wide circle of acquaintances, which she seemed intent on introducing, but I have ever been reticent and so she hit on the idea of joining a bridge club.

I will state for the record I dislike bridge. However, the idea of a few hours weekly spent in pleasant conversation appealed, and I consented. John was assisting Sherlock more often, now, and I knew these afternoons when he was not busy with his practise, he would be spending those hours in his old rooms at Baker Street.

Though the first two afternoons passed well enough, I came to realize it was not so much bridge that was the attraction as gossip. Most of it was relatively innocuous. Some of it was funny. And some of it made me grit my teeth and pray for patience – as I was one of the youngest, and certainly the newest, member of the group I could not comment as I would like.

Until this afternoon, that is. I am still angry and embarrassed and I do hope dear Emily will still speak to me!

It had started off quietly, a round or two of indifferent bidding as we – Em and I played as partners – grew to know our new opponents. It was a reasonably large room; there were four tables this day as the entire complement of the club was present. Two were entirely unfamiliar to me, and it was to one of these two I had cast half an ear, for I had heard Sherlock's name mentioned.

"…Holmes, that awful man. He had the effrontery to inform me that my case was not one he would be interested in! The theft of my rubies, not worthy of the great Sherlock Holmes! If Peter hadn't had that windfall from his uncle, and been off looking at land, I would have had him give Mr. Sherlock Holmes what for."

I cut my glance behind me, where one of the recent arrivals was settled like a great, full breasted bird amongst her flock.

"And that doctor friend of his…Watson…he escorted me out with what he thought, doubtless, was grace, but was akin to a cold dismissal with the door in my face!"

I felt a kick upon my ankle, just a gentle one, and looked up at Em who was staring at me in warning. This lady was a Lady, her gaze reminded me, and therefore circumspection was in order.

Then why is she playing with us, my gaze attempted to return, for we were all spouses and widows of professional men - good men, but why a Lady would deign to join us I found difficult to understand. Unless she was not welcome with her own group. A scandal, perhaps, I mused.

"Two no trump," said I aloud for it was my turn, and concentrated for a time on the game. I ended as dummy and laid my cards down for Emily to play, which was fortunate for our chances of winning, but proved unfortunate for I now had no other thing to concentrate on but the conversation behind me.

The Lady had embarked upon a careful description of her conversation with Holmes – how she was continuing to play I had no idea – and had summed up her opinion of both he and my husband with the comment that obviously they had come to believe their own tales, and had become puffed up and self important.

The biddies near her cooed agreement – I could not but think of them like pigeons, the lot of them; and the Lady's grey garb, though fashionable, did nothing to dispel that.

"He has such terrible habits, that man," she was saying now. "Not only do I have it on authority he take drugs, he does strange experiments!" Buzzing from the biddies. "I saw his equipment! Ghastly bottles boiling on the flames, odd concoctions dripping…"

I must have turned slightly, and I felt a foot make contact with my ankles again, far more energetically.

"And that Doctor chap. There is an odd friendship. Odd indeed." She stopped, and there was a breathless pause. "Perhaps his chief task is to massage that man's ego? To continually inform him of how intelligent he is? Perhaps to enhance Holmes' reputation through those terrible tales he writes?"

Sore ankle or no, I was ready to stand and defend, but rather than chance the kick again, Emily finished the hand and called my given name.

I turned my attention back to our table, pasting a pleasant smile on my face, but as is so often the case I was unable to keep from listening – mind, the Lady did not have a notably quiet tone, and she was obviously unaware of my presence and identity…or perhaps she was aware and simply chose not to care?

"That poor doctor, though, he was recently very ill, was he not?" one of the biddies ventured timidly, and the Lady snorted without grace. The misadventure involving Sherlock, John and a man who had vowed vengeance had been covered in the papers, I knew, though I had not read them and did not desire to. Lestrade had ended up having Clark issue bulletins in order to keep the newspapermen from camping out on the lawn.

"I could not believe it," the Lady said, and in a harsh stage whisper she confided to the room at large "with his friend at death's door, Holmes was seen at the docks buying drugs! My driver heard it from a friend of his who has a friend in the warehouses. So much for that legendary partnership, Nero fiddled while Rome burned! Who's bid was it?"

I snapped. I heard Emily hissing my name, and I was peripherally aware of the others at my table looking on agog, but I stood, turned, and marched on the Lady.

"Allow me to introduce myself. Mrs. John Watson." I said coldly. Her eyes widened a trifle, and she opened her mouth but I continued, "I have been listening to your very interesting observations regarding my husband, Doctor John Watson, and our friend Sherlock Holmes. It might interest you to know that a man, who was a scientist and physician of some repute, had sworn vengeance on Holmes. He mounted a cowardly attack, during which my husband was poisoned. Once Holmes had run the villain to ground he extracted the knowledge of the antidote. The materials required were not available at your average corner pharmacy, and he had to range over London, speak to every contact he had and call in favours owed to obtain them, indeed he fought for one of the rarer components! It was a near thing, but I'm certain you will be relieved to know my husband did not die, and will recover entirely due to his friend's efforts."

The Lady resembled a fish now, mouth gaping. I did not dare look behind me; I fancied I could feel Emily's glare. I had one more thing to say, though, and I leaned forward to say it slightly more confidentially – I was furious, but had not yet taken leave of my senses entirely.

"Holmes did not take your case," I said shortly, "because it could not end well. Your Peter stole your rubies, and he sold them – his windfall is likely paying his visit to a house of ill repute, not enabling him to look for land for you! I am no detective, but even I am able to see how it was!"

I pulled myself up and squared my shoulders. Meeting no-one's eyes, I retrieved my wrap and clutch and strode from the room.

I had managed to compose myself, somewhat, on the ride home. My temper was ever thus, slow to kindle, then a flash and over. The memory of the Lady's astonished face had begun to transform from pleasant to guilty, I had after all embarrassed her before her friends, and it was not something of which to be proud. A small voice reminded me that she had started it, but I sternly squashed the idea – was I still a child, to return tit for tat? It wasn't that I would apologize to her, not at all, but I did owe apology to my hostess. And to Emily, if she would hear it.

I paid the driver and entered our home, feeling, as always, a warm sense of comfort. I saw Holmes' hat and umbrella in the hall. He had borne my temper lately as well, but we had moved past it, and his visit was welcome.

"Hello, m'am, you're home early," Annie said, taking my coat.

"I found the atmosphere a touch stifling, and decided to return home. Mr. Holmes is here, I see."

"Yes, he and the Doctor are taking the air out back. The Doctor is looking much better, m'am, is he not? For one as was so ill just a few days ago."

Annie was young, and tended to rattle on, but I knew her concern was from the heart – she had been of great help during the dark days recently past.

"Yes, he is. I would not make these comments to anyone outside the family, though." I hated to bring her up short, but confidentiality was so key in a household of this sort, doctor or detective – or both in one.

"Yes, m'am," Annie returned, not at all abashed. "And family would include Mr. Holmes, m'am?" She had a smile on her face, and I had to chuckle.

"Twas ever thus, Annie, twas ever thus. I'll change and join them. Tea, perhaps, in half an hour? And if Mrs. Tavers calls, please bring her to me?"

If she called, I would be grateful. I remembered the shocked expression on Em's face. I truly hoped my words had not broken our friendship – I didn't think they would, but I wouldn't be certain until we talked again.

It took me only a few moments to change my clothing to something more suitable to an afternoon in the air. I retrieved my sewing bag from beside my chaise and made my way out to the back.

I stood at the back door a moment, watching them. They were seated with their backs to me in our tiny garden in the sun, making good use of the comfortable wicker chairs I had purchased – I noted there was one empty on John's other side. They had their heads together, perusing an article in the paper, and Sherlock made a quiet comment to John that set him to laughing.

The sound gladdened my heart and I paused, savouring it. I know that I had indicated I would not set down the whole of the circumstances that brought Sherlock and I together as friends finally and irrevocably, and I do not intend to delve deeply into it, but in retrospect it was the only thing that could have broken the wall between us. It was so simple, really. Our common ground was the health and well-being of our John.

I remembered well a late, late night, only days before; Sherlock's taut, worried face, and the surprise in his eyes as …well, I broke. I flew at him in fury, accusing him of causing John to be poisoned, swearing it did not matter if my husband lived or died, Sherlock would never more darken our door, cursing the day I had encouraged my love to join him again on his adventures. I remember beating at his chest, making him wince - and his strong hands gripping my wrists – eyes dark, but not replying. He made no protestation to my words, and I was so sunk in despair that I did not notice. At length he left, and I did not see him again until he appeared at the doctor's side, and there was a hypodermic in the doctor's hand. The antidote.

I had not seen anything else – not the way Sherlock limped, the arm held to his side stiffly protecting bruised ribs – not of my causing, I found later, but from a fight with a docksman. We watched as the doctor made the injection, and I found myself praying beneath my breath, hoping it was in time. The poison made it difficult to breathe, to move, left to run its course John's heart would simply stop.

I had been sitting, staring at John's face, watching the stillness after each breath, watching for his chest to rise again. Slowly, I became aware that Sherlock was there as well. He was sitting across from me, and I looked up, and his expression of absolute devastation had mirrored my own emotions so exactly. My anger had spent itself long before, and I saw a man in such pain as I could understand. I stood and moved round to sit beside him, tugging a hassock over next to his low chair, as he watched me in surprise. I managed a smile, and sat. Now we could only wait – I found tears were falling and I was too weary to try to be strong any more.

I had cried, quietly, and he had sat motionless for some moments, before hesitantly wrapping one arm around me. With endearing awkwardness at our unusual proximity, he held me; his own emotions clear in his irregular breaths, and in the dampness on his face in the moonlight. I had asked about the man that had poisoned John, for I knew he had given Sherlock the formula for the antidote and I could not believe it had been that simple. He stated plainly that it had not, and that the man had been taken care of, and I knew from his voice not to press further.

We had dozed at John's bedside, I was able to take a little rest, leaning against Sherlock, and he, too had nodded off. So it was that we were both wakened by my husband's weary voice gently jibing us.

"My best friend and my wife…" he'd said hoarsely, a weak smile on his face, and we had both snapped out of our fatigue and leaned to him.

"It appears we only bond at your bedside, but we are quite good friends now," Sherlock managed a jest despite his fatigue, "you may cease being injured or poisoned," and he had returned the smile.

We had reached for John's hand at almost the same time, I did not pull back upon encountering Sherlock's fingers, nor did he when he found mine, and it must have been a comfort to John as well that we sealed our friendship – for that it was. I was still afraid of losing my love, horribly afraid, but something had eased in the night.

With this memory in my mind I advanced on the pair. Sherlock turned at the slight sound of my footsteps, alert and wary, but relaxed when he identified me. I was touched again at his protectiveness of my husband, his friend, and I smiled warmly, dropping an affectionate hand on his shoulder as I passed before leaning and kissing John's pale face.

"You're back early," John said, echoing Annie. Sherlock said nothing, but I knew he must have detected signs of my discontent; his eyes had surveyed me keenly.

"There were entirely too many people there, my love," I said, attempting to sound lighthearted. "I found it quite confining."

"Is Emily with you?" he asked then.

"Oh, I think she will be along presently," I replied, busying myself with my sewing bag. "I must say, though, this has more appeal to me at the moment – wonderful weather, sewing to occupy my hands and the possibility of interesting conversation to occupy my mind. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you."

"Not at all," Sherlock replied. He was eyeing me narrowly, and I knew that I had not fooled him with my quick response, but I tilted my head slightly in a negative motion – which was missed by my husband, occupied as he was with the newspaper – and Sherlock thinned his lips in response. I knew I had but delayed the questions, in deference to John's recovery.

"Tea will be served presently," I said, withdrawing a pair of socks in need of darning. I held them up, they were unfamiliar to me for a moment, but then I heard John snort in amusement.

"You borrow my clothes, and now you borrow my seamstress," he said with a twinkle, and I made a small derisive noise, then shook Sherlock's socks out and began to stitch.

Tea had arrived and been consumed, and the conversation was flagging as John became weary. The sun was behind the garden wall when I folded the top of my bag and suggested we retire to the house.

"You'll stay for supper?" I asked Sherlock. "And your room is ready, if you have no pressing need to return to Baker Street, and you would like to stay the night. I daresay you have made provision for Gladstone."

"I will, and I will, and I have," he replied, as we assisted John to his feet. He walked slowly but steadily, with Sherlock on one side and I on the other, ready to assist if needed – but it was not necessary, for he gained the house and the sitting room with little difficulty. I excused myself to check that supper was proceeding, and to ask Annie to lay out a nightshirt for our friend.

There were two guest rooms in the house, and one I had come to call Sherlock's – once it was apparent John would recover he had stated his intent to depart, to trouble us no longer, but I had merely steered him to this room. As I handed him one of John's nightshirts, I caught his hand and pressed it. I had apologized for my words of anger, and he had simply said that they were deserved. If I still wished, he would absent himself from our lives.

I wish I could say I had laughed off my earlier outburst as pique, but in reality I looked at him for a long moment. His gaze, usually so firm, had wavered and dropped finally, to our hands. My words were slow in coming, but I was certain he understood the trust I placed in him, and that while I did not want John to come to hurt, neither did I wish him to lose what made him strong, and he nodded, and closed the door softly when we had finished.

He had slept the clock 'round, almost, and woken with remarkable appetite. I had been sitting with John in our room, reading to him as he dozed – the doctor had come, and been suitably impressed, and indicated his recovery should be complete. Sherlock had taken some little time to wash, then had wrapped himself in the dressing gown I had left on his bed and come into the room, rifling through the drawers and closet for clothing.

I had watched in amusement, and John had roused to comment that Baker Street was only a cab ride away, and complained about the fact his third best suit was being commandeered. Sherlock had made a comment about married gentlemen gaining a certain roundness about the stomach, and noted the colour was more suited to one not quite so aggressively moustachioed…John's laughter had been brief but heartfelt, and Sherlock had raised an eyebrow at me before retiring to dress.

I had no idea what the humour and discussion was about, for Emily and I had shared clothing before, it seemed eminently sensible to me. Men can be odd.

Sherlock's room was prepared, and I was descending the stairs when the knock came. I paused on the landing, listening – it was indeed Emily, and her voice was firm in her request to see me.

"I'm here, Emily," I said, stepping down the last few steps.

Her gaze was neutral and I felt worry rise.

"I am sorry, Em," I said before she could start. "That was a terrible thing for me to do."

She blinked at me. "I beg your pardon, Mary, but it was a terrible thing for Lady Sunderland to say! When you left, the bridge was over of course, but you would have been pleased – opinion came down on your side squarely!"

I blinked. I knew, of course, that it would have interrupted the games, but to stop them entirely?

"Oh, dear – I must write a letter of apology to Sarah directly!"

"Dear Mary, you are always so worried about the wrong things. Lady Sunderland was quite abashed! She took herself off quietly. Do not give it another thought."

"What I said, about her husband…" I protested. "That was quite unnecessary."

Emily shook her head. "Far from being embarrassed, my dear, she seemed quite angry at the man. She can survive the scandal. It's not her first."

I must have appeared puzzled, for she took my hands.

"You were completely justified in defending your husband, Mary. And his friend. Do not feel guilty. We are all terrible gossips, and at times we forget that the names mask real people. You reminded us all, and I am grateful. Now, may I see John, or is he resting?"

"Yes, he's resting – I mean, of course." I was somewhat flummoxed, and I drew a breath to calm myself. "Do come in. He's in the sitting room, resting before supper. Sherlock is here as well."

I led the way, and sat – John greeted Em with affection, and Sherlock stood politely, before sitting again as she did. We had exchanged a few small pleasantries before Sherlock asked directly about the occurrences at the bridge game – I cringed inwardly, but I knew he must have heard the conversation in the hall.

Emily had no reticence. She launched into a spirited re-telling of the confrontation, and summarized the discussions thereafter, which I had no part in, with wit and aplomb, and both Sherlock and John cast admiring glances my way.

I was still displeased with how I had conducted myself, and vowed to write our hostess Sarah a note of apology as soon as possible. By the time supper was announced I was all but squirming with embarrassment.

"Do stay to supper, Em," I invited half-heartedly, not looking forward to continuing to discuss my behaviour. She shook her head. "I have an assignation, my dear, and must not miss it. I will tell you about it next time we speak. Don't get up, gentlemen," and she rose, as I did, and we left the room.

She retrieved her bag and hat, and I saw her carriage waiting outside. She nodded to her driver, but turned to me and looked at me directly.

"Are you going to let John continue this dangerous work?" she asked flatly.

I stared at her, and then dropped my eyes, remembering another outburst of mine. I still asked myself the question, and knew I would every time he left with Sherlock; even knowing the answer was immutable.

"John would stop if I asked, Em. I know he would." I replied. "Sherlock himself indicated he would retreat from our lives if I asked. It is a terrible power for me to have."

I collected my thoughts with deliberation, and then continued, "But if John stopped, he would be compelled to watch Sherlock continue without him. He would grow to resent me – he has been a soldier, Em, he is a man of action. It would poison - " I hesitated, but the word was apt, "poison our marriage. And if, the Lord forbid, anything were to happen to Sherlock…" I shook my head slightly "it doesn't bear thinking about. I can't ask John to stop. I have asked Sherlock to watch over him, to bring him back to me, and I cannot ask for a more loyal friend."

I straightened. "Yes. John will continue as long as he wishes. I will not stop him."

I met her eyes, and saw – relief? She smiled, warmly, and embraced me.

"You are wise, Mary, so wise. You have it exactly right, and for that reason I know you and John will have a long and happy marriage. And…"she eyed my midriff "children? Soon? I have a need to be an auntie."

I laughed and patted her cheek. "You will be the best auntie. Go, your assignation will be put out if you keep him waiting."

She waved, and I waved, and Annie called us all in to dinner.


End file.
